


Past Our Satellites

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Hannibal, Breathplay, Clothes Porn, Come Marking, Dark Will Graham, Episode: s02e12 Tome-wan, M/M, Manipulation, Murder Husbands, Rutting, Sensual Play, Will Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The already peaceful office becomes an intimate space between them, with their seats pulled closer over the dark floorboards, and drawn curtains. The fireplace is their only source of light. Hannibal has carved the illusion of a reality all their own - warm and welcoming - and Will walks into it with wide eyes and open arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Our Satellites

**Author's Note:**

> Took me long enough to write these two, in all honesty. This was actually inspired by [this post](http://hornydancy.tumblr.com/post/112810539963/you-look-good-in-pleasure) which I saw on tumblr and nearly lost it, so I had to wax poetic about dom!Will admiring his favorite manipulative psychiatrist while he undresses.
> 
> Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.

The crackle and snap of the fire is as alluring as the potent scent of wine under his nose. It lends a sense of tranquility to his bones, easing the unwanted tension coiled tightly in his muscles. The seat underneath and around him is a comfortable fortress that steadies him in his quest to conquer, holding him up for the inevitable battle that is about to begin. 

Although there is no music in Dr. Lecter’s office, Will can almost hear the soft intonations reverberating in his ears, lulling him away into a dreamlike state.

It’s the state of mind he often takes when immersing himself in the situation, balancing himself over the edge of the knife; being alert but not hostile, calm but not pliant. It wouldn’t do to bore Hannibal with a lack of self-awareness and trepidation. The concoction is complicated and surprisingly easy to brew given the right atmosphere, and as of late, Hannibal hasn’t disappointed in creating one.

The already peaceful office becomes an intimate space between them, with their seats pulled closer over the dark floorboards, and drawn curtains. The fireplace is their only source of light. Hannibal has carved the illusion of a reality all their own - warm and welcoming - and Will walks into it with wide eyes and open arms.

 _I’m a good fisherman._ But he fears he’s walked too deep into the stream. There is no shore for him to see.

“There are some extraordinary circumstances here, Will.” Hannibal leans back in his seat, crosses his legs with utmost grace. “And some unusual opportunities.”

Will sets his glass down on the table beside him, his eyes steady on the bow of Hannibal’s mouth. “For whom?” He licks his lips and shifts, crossing his own legs in accidental mimicry. The realization comes shortly afterwards, but he pushes it away and buries it deep, unwilling to analyze his need to emulate much further than he already has. 

“For both of us.”

“Mason Verger is an opportunity?”

“Mason Verger is a problem. Problem solving is hunting. It is a savage pleasure and we are born to it. A savage pleasure we can share.”

The concept of sharing, Will finds, stands as a peculiar shade upon Hannibal’s persona. He and he alone chooses what is shared, what he deems proper to share, and what is rude to not share. Savage pleasures and equally savage intentions are strictly for them to thread and pull apart, another trinket for their shared tapestry.

Will, however, is not to be shared.

“You’re fostering codependency,” Will says, resting his hands over the armrests and idly drumming his fingertips against them.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Hannibal angles his head just so, feigning uncertainty. The movement causes shadows along the sharp and angular cuts of his face, creating an image not unlike death.

“Isn't that what you did with Abigail? Got her to take a life so she would owe you hers.” He is calm, observational, analytical. Will is aware of their game. “I bond with Abigail, you take her away. I bond with barely more than the idea of a child, you take it away. You saw to it that I alienated Alana, alienated Jack.” 

Finally meeting Hannibal’s eyes, he draws in a breath before finishing. “You don't want me to have anything in my life that's not you.” His tone betrays the intended significance of his words. They are meant to be a rebuke, a revelation of his distaste towards Hannibal’s insistent manipulation. Instead, the words come out breathy, almost wanton.

“I am your psychiatrist, Will. I only want what’s best for you.”

The veneer of self-composure is insulting.

“Please. Every moment of cogent thought under your psychiatric care is a personal victory,” Will says, offering a sarcastic smile.

Hannibal returns the mere suggestion of his own, just a mild upturn of his lips. “You're applying yourself to my perspective as I've been applying myself to yours.”

Will lifts his eyebrows, nods slowly. “You're right. We are just alike.” It’s a terrifying idea to accept, but the realization has been with him for a while now. “You're as alone as I am. And we're both alone without each other.” The importance lies on what Will is going to do with this knowledge, and he ponders this while pushing himself closer to the edge of the seat.

Seemingly mesmerized and hiding it well, Hannibal rises to his feet and moves to his desk to refill his glass. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer to refill Will’s barely-touched drink. He wonders if he’s buying time to think of a proper response, but that’s unlikely. Hannibal is nothing but deep-seated control and quick wit, and speechlessness is something Will is yet to witness from him.

The wine gets swirled and scented, the glass’ lip placed against Hannibal’s mouth with careful precision and Will studies every movement from the soft rise and fall of his chest to the slide of tongue that picks up any stray droplets of Bordeaux.

Will _feels_ it, the electricity that crackles just under Hannibal’s skin. He can sense the muted excitement, the feeble tremor of vulnerability and the distaste of it. Hannibal is both thrilled and irritated by Will’s claim in the same way he is, and the fact that Will is attuned to these shifts touches a shiver to his spine.

He may not be inside the walls yet, but Will has hoisted himself up to sit on the ledge and look within. What he sees are turbulent waters and an endless fire. Lovely and surprising in its simplicity. His vantage point offers him a priceless gift.

Back straight albeit relaxed, Hannibal turns to retake his place before Will. He still says nothing, face a handsome mask of open amusement as he thumbs at a button on his waistcoat for no apparent reason. Each step is silent over the wooden floor.

Hannibal opens his mouth to speak as he turns to sit, but Will is two steps ahead, heady with a high he can’t blame on the wine. “Stop,” he says, and while he wouldn’t call his tone authoritative, he makes certain to leave no room for misinterpretation.

The reaction hides within eyes that nearly shine black in the lighting; an animal trapped by the mere command of a trainer it is unsure it wants.

Will stands up, filled with bravado he’s uncertain where he’s summoned from but doesn’t question. Best not look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Each step he takes brings them closer and their eyes hold, a challenge Will considers but is still undecided whether or not he should accept. He’s come this far, shattering standards and morals to stand equal to the beast before him; why not enjoy himself? If the way Hannibal licks his lips, he might end up enjoying himself too.

The vantage point offers Will power and control.

Taking the glass of wine from Hannibal’s hand, Will walks over to place it back on the desk before returning to stand before him. Hannibal doesn’t move. His face is eerily blank, with lips pressed into a thin line that speaks volumes of his displeasure at the thought of relinquishing control.

Will hesitates.

A calming breath and he’s stepping closer, now standing toe to toe with Hannibal, and taking in the tiny creases and imperfections of his face. He brings up a hand to touch the sharp slope of his cheekbone, dragging his fingers down until smooth skin becomes soft stubble along a strong jaw.

The hand stops once he notices what he’s done, that this is reality and not a waking dream, but a lack of reaction insinuates that Hannibal isn’t entirely against it. No confirmation is given, and neither is he pushed away, so Will continues to test the placid waters before him.

Maroon eyes are steady on his face when Will lets his own eyes drop, following the motion of his hands.

The pads of Will’s fingers dance down the column of Hannibal’s neck, down until they reach the rich fabric of the shirt collar. They drift to the side, sloping along shoulders and down his arms, collecting warmth and charging the static between them. Will ghosts over Hannibal’s warm hands before resuming.

Fingers coyly walk up the checkered waistcoat, taking only a moment to circle a button before repeating the treatment on the following one. Will allows a tiny smile, one that borders on coyness and knows Hannibal considers charming.

At last, he reaches the dark tie that is so tight against his neck Will marvels how he doesn’t find it uncomfortable. The silk is cool, inviting in its smoothness. Here, Will lingers, taking note of the way his skin is humming with a distinct feeling of pleasure. Just touching the elegant fabric of Hannibal’s clothing makes his blood sing.

Deny it as he may, there’s always been a part of their relationship that has been inherently erotic, although not entirely sexual. Will has never found himself longing for Hannibal this way, but he won’t lie about the fantasies he’s entertained out of sheer boredom and a momentary lapse of mind. 

He recalls one occasion - after having had dinner with the man - when his thoughts had wondered how it would be like to be placed between Hannibal’s lips in the same fashion of a fork. Will had laughed at how stupid the intrusive thought was.

Now, he isn’t laughing. He watches the thin line Hannibal’s mouth has pressed into, the curious formation of his top lip and how it rests invitingly over the bottom one. He’s kissable, Will decides. No doubt atrociously good at it, too.

Riding another wave of bravery, he slips two fingers under the Windsor knot and crooks them, pressing his knuckles deep into the tender area of Hannibal’s throat. He can feel a pulse, strong but erratic. His breathing is nearly cut short by Will’s action.

Hannibal is so quick Will would bolt out of the office if he weren’t rendered immobile by the arm suddenly trapping him. Thin lips are pressed to his almost desperately, starving for a better taste after being teased with feather-light touches. A hand grips the hair at the base of Will’s head, and another is digging into his lower back, holding him tightly to Hannibal’s hard body.

A swipe of his tongue and Will grants him permission to explore, to lick at the wine that still lingers in his mouth. A bite to his bottom lip, and Will moans.

Their relationship might not have been sexual before, but it is now.

Hannibal kisses with controlled ferocity, passionate with the promise of violence hidden beneath the guise of chivalry. This kiss a lure, and Will has no doubt that were they naked and in bed Hannibal wouldn’t be holding back like this. A thrill lights up his spine at the thought.

Will takes what he can get, and that’s glorious heat pressed along the front of his body, a searing kiss, a claiming tongue, and a possessive hold. Also, a very aroused Hannibal seeking friction as he presses his erection to Will’s hip. Returning the favor, Will brings their bodies closer together, parting mouths only for a moment to breathe before joining again. 

He grips Hannibal’s hair, ruffles it in a way that doesn’t match the tempo of their kiss, just because Will wants to see it unkempt once more. It’s oddly endearing.

They break away and before Hannibal can resume, Will places a hand over his chest and shakes his head.

_Just a taste._

Will takes a step back, and then another, until the back of his knees tap the edge of his seat. He considers Hannibal and gives an appreciative hum, marvelled at how pristine he still holds himself for the exception of his hair which he doesn’t bother fixing.

This is a gift Will is being given, and he’s unsure of how to unwrap it. Hannibal is allowing Will to pull him apart, to touch and pry away at the facade until he’s left exposed. This is the last step of their courtship, and how Will reacts is make or break.

More intoxicating yet is how Hannibal fancies himself the grand orchestrator of this scheme, when it’s been Will that has allowed them to reach this point. He keeps to the illusion, lets the man bask in self-congratulation.

Hannibal isn’t giving control, Will is taking it.

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, Will sits down with loose limbs and an airy heart. He smiles up at Hannibal and holds up a hand before the man can move. The look it earns him is one of open heat and unadulterated lust.

Will gets comfortable, taking up his glass and balancing it over his knee. “Hannibal,” he says, and his voice sounds gruff even to himself. The name seems to vibrate in the quiet around them. “I want you to undress.”

It’s a command disguised as a request.

The intake of breath is so sharp Will can feel the sound of it in his gut.

Neither of them moves for a moment, Hannibal staring with unnerving flatness, before he falls into fluid motion. He moves like music, confident and refined, like he knows he will not disappoint.

The jacket is the first to go, and he only breaks eye contact with Will to drape it over the chair behind him. He moves slowly, yet another performance as if he were preparing dinner or staging a murder scene. Elegance exudes from his posture, poise and a willingness to submit because he does not find the idea threatening. It’s a show of trust. A test.

The waistcoat is next. When it comes off his shoulders, Will bites back an absurd laugh. Hannibal wears suspenders. He isn’t sure why he finds the idea so funny, but he does, so he settles for an amused smile that is briefly returned while Hannibal pulls them off and lets them hang at his sides.

Then, it’s the tie. This he lets slither to his feet, and Will has half a mind to tie his wrists with it, but the movement that follows whisks off the urge.

Hannibal’s hands caress his belt buckle, thumb and index finger almost fumbling shyly as the tongue is pulled free. Will watches with rapt fascination as it’s undone, left to hang there when Hannibal pops the button and drags the zipper down. He pulls out his shirt tails.

Slower still, Hannibal unbuttons his shirt. White gives way and Will drinks in the sight of skin he’s never seen before, delights in the curls of hair on his chest and the expanse of his stomach. Muscles contract and shift as the article of clothing is slid off Hannibal’s shoulders and off his arms, revealing a torso that is slimmer yet better built than his suits show.

Shoes and socks are next, and there’s really no seductive way to remove them. Hannibal does so quickly but without breaking stride, turning at last to the trousers that hang open on his hips. Here he stops, looks at Will with something akin to unimpressed amusement. It’s so subtle Will has to squint to see the smile.

Hannibal closes the distance to stand near Will’s feet.

The trousers are pulled down in one swift move and carelessly cast aside, a gesture that’s meant to convey Hannibal’s apparent desperation. Will says nothing, patiently waiting for the last of his armor to be shed.

Thumbs hook onto the elastic of Hannibal’s underwear and the gesture sheds off years, reminding Will of eager teenagers trying to impress their first lay. He looks by no means juvenile, nor eager for that matter, but it’s a move so banal Will would not have been able to imagine without witnessing it first hand.

The image is chased away once the underwear is removed.

Hannibal stands as someone unbothered by his nudity, holding himself tall and proud while holding his arms to the side. He looks down at Will and whatever he sees on his face satisfies him. “Would you like me to kneel?” Hannibal asks, not an ounce of sarcasm or forced dignity present.

Drinking the last of his wine, Will clears his throat and puts down the glass.

He would like Hannibal to do a lot of things, most of which are related to the cock that hangs at half-mast between his long legs. Not voicing this, he nods his head instead.

Nothing would have ever prepared Will for the sight of Hannibal on his knees before him, divested of his clothing. The surge of power that crackles along his fingertips is addictive, asking him to touch and claim the creature hidden behind the person suit. An overwhelming need to devour grabs hold of his gut; a dark reminder that Hannibal’s desires aren’t all that different from his own.

Will breathes nice and steady. Once certain that he’s able to continue, he sits closer to the edge of the chair, bring their faces close enough to touch. He inspects Hannibal’s face, the shifts and twitches that are the only indication that he’s at all affected by this. His lips part, inviting Will to kiss, but he refrains.

“It excites you, doesn’t it?” Will says, touching his fingers to the bottom of Hannibal’s chin. “To surrender your control.”

“Only to someone I trust, dear Will.”

Another deep breath, this one bringing in the rich scent of his cologne. “You trust me.” He doesn’t speak it as a question, sensing the sincerity of his statement. “Naked and unarmed, kneeling before me like some sacrifice. And you trust me.”

“I trust my fate in your hands, regardless of the route you choose to take.”

Fingers travel from chin to neck, where Will clutches with little violence. “I could kill you.”

“You could.” Eyes falling to half-mast, Hannibal leans into the touch. “You could drink the air from my lungs until there is nothing left. Would that make you happy?”

He tightens the hold and Hannibal’s lips part, whether to breathe or moan, Will is still debating. “You would let me deny you your life?”

“You would have your reckoning.”

There is a truth hidden within the lies, but Will doesn’t feel like digging for them just yet. Of course Hannibal would never allow such a disgraceful death, not even at Will’s hand, but there is something to say about the implicit trust being shown here. Hannibal knows that Will won’t try to kill him, and it’s perfect.

Or it would be perfect, if Will would be steadier on his decision.

“Come away with me,” Hannibal says, and it’s so soft Will can feel his chest quiver.

“Hannibal.” The name dies away on his tongue when he notices it. It’s a gentle nudge that is only given away by the subtle shift of Hannibal’s shoulders and the gentle words Will can’t understand. “Impatience doesn’t suit you,” he says, and it’s lie. There’s nothing lovelier than the touch of pleasure that colors his body.

Hannibal moves again, near imperceptible, and his eyelids flutter. “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I can no longer help myself.”

Will looks to where Hannibal is touching, fingers gliding up the underside of his cock. A thumb and index finger gently wrap around the head and pull back, dragging the foreskin and revealing a bulb of dusty pink.

While the image of Hannibal masturbating is enticing, it defeats the purpose of everything Will has done up to this moment. With the tip of his shoe he nudges the hand away, and Hannibal looks up at him with an unhappy expression. It’s almost endearing, given the circumstances.

Reluctantly, the hand is placed over his thigh.

“What would you have me do? If we leave.” Will is surprised at his own strength of will. His voice sounds sturdy enough to hide the arousal that presses up against his zipper. “Am I to play the role of an accomplice? Keep the kitchen warm while you bring home the meat?”

“Or the other way around, if that bores you,” Hannibal says, resting back on his calves. “I can keep the bed warm while you bring home the meat.” Will nearly curses when his cock gives a traitorous jerk, Hannibal’s words curling and caressing like a physical touch. “If not, we can do so together.”

“Wrack up twice the body count.”

“Only if that’s what you want.”

“If it’s not?” Will dares to ask, meeting Hannibal’s eyes again. “If I don’t want to… _hunt?_ ” The word is sour in his mouth. He knows it’s a useless question for a metaphorical situation. If Will Graham gets on that plane, there is nothing to stop him from indulging in practices not much different from Hannibal Lecter’s.

Hannibal knows this and he doesn’t reply; he simply smiles.

“Two of a kind,” Will continues, carefully pressing the tip of his shoe to the root of Hannibal’s cock. He watches, carefully, the minute gestures of his face as they crease, holding back the urge to shamelessly hump Will’s foot. “It would be a unique honeymoon.”

Hannibal lets go of a controlled sigh, eyes shut as if lost to his pleasure. 

Intrigued, Will drags the tip up the underside until it reaches the head. When he’s run out of shaft, he presses the sole of the shoe gently to it, trapping it against Hannibal’s abdomen. He presses, and the reaction fuels the power trip currently raging within him.

If Hannibal were one to keen, then that is the word Will would use for the sound he makes. It’s something lodged in the back of his throat that reverberates in his chest and is filtered only by his pride. His head even tips back a fraction of an inch.

“Tell what would make you lose control,” Will murmurs, pressing harder until Hannibal finally bucks up at the friction. _So he likes pain._ Somehow, he isn’t surprised. “What can I do to make you come with nothing but my name on your lips?”

Hannibal opens his eyes and meets Will’s own with an intensity that borders on frightening. “Will,” he says, and it’s a warning.

“Hannibal.” The time for warnings and advisories has passed. “Is this all I need to do?” He twists his foot on an angle and the chafe must be uncomfortable, but the man’s only retort is an open mouth and harsh breathing. 

“Inflicting pain. Reminding you that you are not, in fact, a god.” A beat. “No, that’s not right. You’re a god that’s grown bored with easy pickings, forcing you to seek out a challenge, but not one that will threaten your holiness.” Will eases off the pressure and allows him a moment to collect himself.

“Or I simply take joy in being stepped on by you.” Hannibal gives him a look that’s wry and amused, telling Will that he’s trying too hard.

Before a laugh can bubble out of Will, he goes back to working Hannibal with nothing but his shoe. It’s absurd and unorthodox, a mirror of their relationship, but every sound and twitch Hannibal tries to hold back is well worth it.

Will watches the cock engorge under his ministrations, takes in how Hannibal digs nails into his thighs while he ruts for more and scowls when Will pulls away. 

When he resumes, it’s by slipping the foot underneath him to press up against his scrotum. The curse that follows isn’t in English.

The uneven rise and fall of his chest alerts Will that he is close to completion, even when there’s no other indication. Will keeps his stroking light enough to cause no damage, taking in the moment when Hannibal teeters between two waters. Already handsome, the man looks gorgeous with a sheen of perspiration glistening in the firelight. The imperfect hair and parted lips, dark eyes that seem fathomless as they stare right through him.

“Would you feed me?” he asks, helping Hannibal along. “After a hunt. After we’ve fucked the adrenaline out of our bodies. Would you use your fingers to place tiny morsels between my teeth?” Maroon eyes fall shut, but Will isn’t having that. “Look at me, Hannibal. Look at me and come.”

With light tremors taking hold, Hannibal does as he’s told.

The sight of his neck muscles straining as he tips his head back deserves to be immortalized in oils. The heave of his chest as a moan is created but never released is enticing, mouth parting but no sound escaping as thick ropes of come stain stomach, thighs, and the imitation leather of Will’s shoe.

The coiled power that quivers under Hannibal’s skin is akin to a hurricane trapped in a butterfly net, destructive and rapturous and demanding to be admired, _worshipped_. A god of pagan lore Will wishes to keep locked in his trunk to only ever be admired by his eyes alone.

Hannibal sighs, posture unwinding as he climbs down with a blissed look in his eyes. “Will you praise me for a job well done, Will?”

Will swallows, hard. His mouth opens and closes but is unable to make proper words; made undone by the deep roughness of Hannibal’s voice. He breathes in. “Good.” Not enough. “You did very good, Hannibal.”

The bow of his head is graceful, accepting the compliment for a perfectly executed performance. A fringe of hair slips to the middle of his forehead.

Silence is only broken by the crackle of fire and Hannibal’s deep breathing, but even that eventually quietens. Electricity still flows between them, trying to kick up a spark and set Will aflame. He welcomes it; opens the doors to the stag-like beast that bows at his feet. Let it impale him, if it means seeing Hannibal be undone by his hands time and time again.

Leaning back in his chair, Will knocks his legs wide open, extending a cordial invitation to his ruin.

He moves like a pleasant dream, like poisoned wine that makes Will’s limbs heavy with muted ecstasy. 

Hands drag upward from knees to thighs to hips, Hannibal hovering over his lap without a flicker of shame. It’s makes Will uneasy. Terrified, actually, when he realizes that Hannibal is working to free the erection from his pants. The idea of having his dick in the mouth of a cannibal should turn him off, but he’s too far gone to care when Hannibal looks at him with thinly veiled adoration.

The touch is hot, making Will bite his lip to avoid any embarrassing sounds. The method fails when a scorching tongue presses flat against the head of his cock, ripping a wrecked moan from deep in his chest.

The fact that Hannibal gives amazing head shouldn’t even surprise him for reasons that are quite obvious, but it does. He swallows Will with ease, jaw loose and breathing even. There’s no choking; only the pleased hum that Will feels against hypersensitive skin.

A hand fondles his balls, rolling them and squeezing, while the other pins him by the hip. Hannibal rises up a matter of inches and angles his head, breathing sharply before sinking until his nose nestles against the wiry hair at Will’s base. His throat shifts to accommodate his girth, and Will involuntarily bucks up into the wet heat.

It’s too much, too good, and Will has left crescent-shaped indentations on the chair’s leather armrests. He moves to grip Hannibal’s hair instead, push him down in order to break his perfect control.

Will fucks his mouth and - God help him - Hannibal lets him.

Orgasm licks at his gut, crawling higher with every agitated huff of air that tickles Will’s skin. His grip tightens, toes curling and he’s _almost there_. “Hannibal,” he pleads, but the name is a broken whisper. “ _Fuck_ , I’m com-… _H-Hannibal!_ ”

Dark eyes flicker up to meet Will’s before closing in silent permission.

Hannibal takes him all the way and moans, and it’s enough to shove Will right over the edge.

With a guttural groan, Will bows forward when the force of orgasm thrashes along every inch of him, gripping him with the same force that Hannibal does. Hannibal, who now has his arms wrapped around Will’s hips as if to pull him closer than he already is.

It’s nothing short of bliss. A walk through celestial meadows that crowd him with a sense of peace and belonging.

Will remains where he is as Hannibal works to swallow his seed before letting him slip out of his mouth with a lewd sound. The ensuring moan is an appreciative one, sending a shiver down Will’s spine.

“You taste wonderful.” And fuck, his voice is wrecked beyond recognition. “I hope I didn’t disappoint.”

The amusement is blatant in his voice so Will kisses his lips to shut him up. His taste is bold in Hannibal’s mouth.

“Sharing savage pleasures,” Will says, presses yet another kiss to the pliant man at his feet. This doesn’t even graze the waters of how savage they can truly get, but he leaves it at that. For the moment, he’s satisfied to hold the beast he’s tamed in such a debauched state.

“Only what’s best for us,” Hannibal concludes, the shield behind his eyes once more in place. His smile is soft and genuine, however; a private treat only for Will to see.

It’s a treat Will readily devours with as much fervor as he does his mouth, his everything. “We should get cleaned up. I need to get home.”

Hannibal nods but lingers a moment longer, his hands roaming the expanse of Will’s soiled pants before getting to his feet as if nothing has transpired. He holds himself regal and well-placed, showing nothing beside the very physical evidence of his act of surrender.

“It would be negligent of me to allow you to drive in your current state,” Hannibal says as he looks pointedly to the wine glass before turning to gather his clothing. “I insist you stay the night.”

Will is stone-cold sober, and he knows for a fact that the least thing he will be doing is sleeping in one of Hannibal’s guest rooms if he does stay. “Wouldn’t want to impose, Dr. Lecter.”

Slipping on his shirt, Will realizes that Hannibal has no intention of cleaning the dry semen off his stomach just yet. The fact makes his cock twitch with interest, which reminds him to tuck himself back into his pants before standing up.

“Nonsense,” he says with a smile that reveals sharp teeth and a promise for nefarious things to come. “Your company is always welcome, Mr. Graham.”


End file.
